


Find What You Love (Let It Kill You)

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26787001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: They’re at each other’s throats because they don’t know any other way to be, lately.A collection of ficlets for Whumptober 2020
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 17
Kudos: 33
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. waking in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> Looks like I'm doing Whumptober! In the spirit of keeping up and not losing my mind, I usually aim for 500-1,000 words per ficlet when I do these challenges. I'm sure some fics will run long, but short is the goal.
> 
> Did I need another project? No! Could I resist that prompt list? Absolutely not!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: waking up restrained

Everything comes filtering back in bits and pieces. First the cold, fingers numb and aching. Next the absolute dark. There’s sound—water running, drops trickling to the floor. His own ragged breath growing faster, quickening with the first flush of panic. Sam forces himself to be still.

Awareness—that comes last. He tries to move his hands. He can feel his hair tickling his face, annoying—one indignity too many on top of everything else—but when he tries to brush it away, he finds he can’t. His arms meet resistance, something hard and unyielding clasped around his wrists. He pulls again, harder. Something cuts into the soft flesh on the inside of his arm. Cuffs. He would bet on it.

Next he tries his feet and finds them similarly bound. Rope, this time. Tape, maybe. It’s impossible to tell in this perfect dark. The thing around his ankles is similarly unyielding. His knees are splayed, legs bound open. There’s something hard and firm against his back—a chair. His feet are tied to its legs.

He tips his head back in frustration and meets absolutely nothing. There’s a second where he almost overbalances—it’s tempting. If he falls, he might be able to find something—some tool to pick the lock on the cuffs. Hell, maybe the chair will splinter—but it’s too much of a risk. He doesn’t know where he is, what lies below him. For all he knows, all he’ll get for his trouble is a concussion and a cracked skull.

He doesn’t know if he’s alone. Isn’t sure he wants to find out.

Minutes pass—he isn’t sure how long. It’s hard to tell anything in the dark. Half an hour, if he had to put a name on it. He waits half an hour more. The cold is getting to him, and he can’t feel his fingers. He’s starting to shiver, teeth chattering autonomously. As far as he can tell, he’s still wearing the clothes he set out in (he better be—has to be—can’t think about what it means if he’s not) and his flannel doesn’t provide much of anything by way of protection from the cold. He can’t even stamp his feet for warmth.

He feels panic crawl up his throat, makes a concentrated effort to tamp it back down. Panic makes you stupid, and stupid isn’t a luxury he can afford right now.

It’s been an hour, and he makes up his mind.

“Hello?” he calls. His voice is lost to a cavernous darkness. Nothing echoes back. He swallows and tries again. “Hello?”

Nothing. Just, nothing.

“Dean?”

He tries to keep the note of panic out of his voice, and he’s not even sure it matters. He is well and truly fucked.

* * *

There’s the dark and the cold. It’s so complete that his eyes never do adjust to the light. It’s dizzyingly disorienting to be unable to tell if they’re open or closed. He opens his eyes. He closes them.

He screams and struggles and fights to get free, jerking his weight against the ties that bind him with all his might, and it turns out he needn’t have worried about overbalancing after all. The chair is strapped down—bolted to the floor, who fucking knows. There’s no way in hell it’s coming free.

He whimpers when he realizes it, and eventually he screams, and it doesn’t matter anyway because there’s no one who hears, and nobody comes, and the dark eats every sound he makes.

* * *

Shapes emerge eventually. Shapes and leering faces, grinning at him from the dark. He sleeps, and he dreams, but he can’t tell the difference between waking and dreaming. Ruby comes for him. Lucifer comes.

He’s hungry, and that helps, actually, it’s a sensation besides the numbing cold, but eventually that burns itself out too. He’s pissed himself at least twice. He’s beyond thirsty, but he’s still breathing, so it can’t have been more than, what—three days? Four? He stopped being able to feel his hands a while back.

“Dean?” he says again, just to hear something.

He chants it like a prayer, Dean Dean Dean Dean until his voice runs out.

Dean is coming for him. Dean will get him. It’s true—the only thing that’s true. It has to be true because the alternative is too dark—grim and covered in festering sores. The alternative will make him start screaming again, and he can’t because his throat already hurts too damn much.

He opens his eyes. He closes them.

He waits and waits and waits.


	2. on your wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: forced to their knees

_ Protect Sammy. _ It’s practically embossed on Dean’s DNA. It’s automatic, instinctual, just like the way his hand twitches for the gun any time there’s a noise too loud, a movement too sudden.

He never wants to hurt Sam—the times Sam rubs him all the wrong ways and earns a split lip at the other end of Dean’s hair-trigger temper aside—but sometimes Sam is such a goddamn brat. Sometimes Dean just wants to get his hands in that hair and pull.

Today is one of those days.

Sam is bitching about something—they’re tracking the wraith wrong, it might not even  _ be _ a wraith, they need to do some more research. Dean’s heard it all. He hears it despite doing his best to tune it out—he always hears Sam, whether he wants to or not. And Dean trusts his brother’s opinions. He does. He’s the smartest goddamn hunter Dean’s ever met, but they’ve been over this and over this. This isn’t about the goddamn wraith. It’s about the fact that they’ve been cooped up inside for going on two weeks, and the last three hunts have ended in dead bodies and no survivors.

They’re at each other’s throats because they don’t know any other way to be, lately.

Dean’s hand shoots out before he’s fully aware he means to do it, some little-brother annoyance power short-circuiting his higher functions as he grabs a fistful of Sam’s stupid hair and twists sharply. Sam lets out a hurt sound that’s—not exactly encouraging him to let go.

_ Huh. _

Not when Sam’s mouth drops open like that, caught somewhere between anger and surprise. Not when his pupils go wide and dark, swallowing up his irises until they’re nothing more than a crescent moon of a suggestion.

A moment passes, one in which he could let go, brush it off. They could pretend this thing never happened.

But there’s that  _ feeling, _ right. The one of standing on the edge of a train platform looking down. The thing that says  _ jump. _ The thing that wants to click the safety of the gun off and stare straight down its barrel. The thing that says  _ yes, more, fuckin’ do it. _

And Dean, look—he’s never been one for impulse control.

He jumps. He looks. He pulls on Sam’s hair, pulls and pulls until tears prick at the corner of his brother’s eyes. Until Sam gets down on his knees, following the direction of Dean’s tug, big lumbering giant that he is. Until he’s looking up at Dean, soft and worshipful, a glint of wonder in his eyes, and Dean thinks  _ fuck, _ because he’s heard people talk about their first line of coke, their first hit of heroin—that feeling of  _ hello, baby, where have you been all my life— _ and this. This is his drug of choice. This is gonna fucking kill him.

Dean can’t pretend like he doesn’t know what this means.

But it’s not like he can give it back (never. never ever.) so he eases up the grip on Sam’s hair, just so he can get his fingertips up against Sam’s scalp, rubbing and kneading until Sammy fucking purrs.

He uses that same hand to lead Sam’s head forward, Dean’s crotch right at eye level, and he goes fucking cross-eyed when Sam puts his mouth on that denim. Sam licks and sucks him through the fabric, making an ever-growing patch of spit-dark wet against Dean’s hard cock.

“Fuck,” Dean groans. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that, little brother.”

And Sam groans hard, pressing his hand against the front of his own pants while he sucks Dean off through his jeans, and Dean thinks yeah. They’re absolutely  _ fucked. _

And then for a long while, he doesn’t think much of anything at all.


	3. nine lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "pick who dies"

_“A Crossroad Demon can be summoned by digging a hole in the dead center of a set of crossroads and burying a box containing a picture of the mortal wishing to make the deal, some graveyard dirt, and a bone from a black cat.”_

  
The ingredients to summon a crossroad demon are easy to come by—they’re just not pretty. One of many fake IDs, lamination peeling up at the corners from rubbing against stolen credit cards in his wallet. Dirt from that cemetery outside Stanton. The bone—well.

Dean sat across from a cardboard box full of squirming black kitten. It mewed plaintively, rattling the box. Every so often a pair of tiny claws would poke through the air holes, followed by a velvety nose searching for milk.

Kittens.

He’d wanted an adult cat—not that it mattered much, but it felt better that way, somehow. A grown cat at least had some living under its belt, scratched some trees, maybe fathered some kittens of its own. A grown cat had some fight in it, and that felt _fair._ This pitiful little ball of fur and bones—its eyes were barely open. But the color mattered for things like this—it’s magic, not science. Fucking _demons,_ man—so a kitten it is, black as his Baby’s paint job and hissing like it knows something when Dean gets the box top open and peers down inside.

He shushes it gently, cooing at it and scooping it out of the box. It smells milky and warm, like fur and sawdust. He cradles it to his chest, ignoring the way its tiny claws prick into his leather jacket. He strokes his fingers down its back once, twice. Its fur is so soft beneath his hand, silky and smooth. He feels a delicate purring rumble against his chest, strong even through his layers of clothing.

“Sorry, buddy,” Dean says. “You’re going to the big kibble dish in the sky. All the warm milk you can drink.”

The kitten says nothing.

He takes a deep breath and snaps the kitten’s neck, quick and clean.

He sets its still-warm body back in the box and starts the Impala. He wipes his hands against his jeans over and over. They aren’t dirty, but they feel like they are.


	4. visceral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "get it out"

“Get it out! Get it out, get it out, get it out.”

“What? Sammy, what? What’s wrong?” Dean is beside himself, round-eyed and about ready to tear his own hair out. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what it is, man. Talk to me.”

But Sam can’t, or won’t. Something is wrong with Sam, really, really wrong, and Dean has no idea what it  _ is. _

Sam woke up like this, pulling Dean out of a nightmare with shouting, and he’s been hollering and writhing for the last twenty minutes. Dean tore up the room looking for hex bags, then finally sat on Sam’s hands while he tried to call Bobby, muttering and cursing under his breath. “God _ dammit, _ Bobby, pick up.”

Bobby doesn’t pick up.

He can’t leave Sam alone. Can’t let him go for a second. There are glistening red weals all over Sam’s body—cuts that he managed to scratch into himself before Dean wrestled him to the bed and pinned his hands.

He’s yelling and hissing and fighting, screaming about something being  _ in _ him, and Dean doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. There was nothing wrong with Sam when he went to sleep. Dean can’t find anything wrong now besides the wide-eyed fear edging into madness, and he’s never felt so helpless.

Sam whimpers, and something snaps in Dean. Everything shifts and refocuses, and then it’s all crystalline-clear.

He helps. It’s what he does. He helps Sammy fight the monsters, and if he has to, he’ll help him fight the ones that aren’t real.

He takes a deep breath and blows it out through his nose, and when he talks again, his voice is steady. “Okay, Sammy,” he says. “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to let go of your hands, and you’re going to stop trying to claw a hole through yourself—”

_ “Crawling,” _ Sam gasps, twitching and writhing. “Dean, they’re crawling.”

“You’re going to stop trying to claw a hole through yourself,” Dean repeats, patient and firm, “And I’m going to help you get them out. Okay?”

He stares Sam down until he catches his eyes, and Sam nods, wide-eyed and grateful. Dean feels sick.

“Okay,” he says, forcing a smile. “I’m going to let you go. Hands off, right?”

Sam nods again.

Dean grabs his knife, freshly sharpened the day before last and still carrying a wicked point. He douses it with alcohol from the flask at his hip, then takes his lighter and passes it over the blade, lingering at the tip and edges. He works fast, not liking the white press of Sam’s lips or the brittle clench of his knuckles, fists wrapped tight and shoved down at his sides. He’s trying to be  _ good, _ and it breaks Dean’s heart. He’s quivering with the strain of not ripping into himself.

“Okay, Sammy. Where is it?”

“Here. I— _ god, _ it’s so bad, Dean. Right here.” He pulls up his shirts, hands trembling and points to a spot on his abdomen, just below his belly button.

For a minute, it’s all Dean can do to stare. He remembers tummy raspberries blown into baby Sammy’s sweet-soft skin. He remembers rubbing Sam’s belly when he was up all night with a stomachache, that time outside of Tallahassee when he was twelve.

Sam looks different now, longer and leaner, all his baby fat and puppy softness burned away, and when did Sam get so thin? There’s a trail of coarse hair trickling down from Sam’s navel, disappearing into the hem of his jeans, and Dean can’t think of that right now. Can’t think of anything but Sam—Sam in pain, Sam twisting and gasping below him. Sam gritting out, “Hurry.”

Dean takes a deep breath and firms his hand, spreading his fingers and drawing the skin of Sam’s belly taut. “Stay still.”

And Sam does. He holds his breath and stays perfectly still, even when every inch of him is quivering with unspent energy. He stays still and lets Dean cut into him, blade parting flesh, scoring a neat, thin line that takes a few long seconds to start seeping.

“Deeper,” Sam gasps, running his hands over the shallow cut. “You gotta—deeper, Dean, they’re still in there. Oh god, please.”

Dean rubs soothingly over Sam’s belly, pushing Sam’s hands away. “I’ve got you. Trust me, Sammy, don’t worry. I’m just getting started.”

The next cut is deeper, scoring through skin and yellow-tinged fat, stopping right before the muscle below. The next cut will be deeper still, and Sam—Sam just smiles.

“I do. I do trust you.” Sam’s hands are wet and red, gore tucked under his short, blunt fingernails as he pats over Dean’s face. He looks so grateful, so peaceful beneath the tight lines of pain under his eyes that Dean thinks he really is going to be sick.


	5. where you go to rest your bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: rescue

Something wakes him up. Sam lies awake in bed, heart rate counting down from one hundred. He lies blinking in the dark, one hand already clenched around the grip of his gun.

There’s no one here. He slowly sighs and unclenches his fingers, pushing them through his hair. He stares at the nebulous, half-formed shapes in the dark and finally sits up.

The bunker is quiet again. Cas and Jack are—somewhere. Gone again. He hadn’t bothered to keep track. Sam pads through the hallway quietly, feet following a familiar path he could find in his sleep. He swings the door open when he gets there.

Dean thrashes and gasps in his covers, fighting something Sam can’t see.

He wouldn’t say that he knows when Dean is having a nightmare. His psychic powers, such as they were, fled around the time he was scrubbed clean and put on a plane soaring high above the wreckage of a chapel they never went back to visit. It’s years gone now. So he doesn’t _know,_ except that it stands to reason that any time Dean is asleep, odds are good he’s having a nightmare—that’s equally true of both of them.

But some nights something pulls him. Some nights Sam finds himself here without knowing why, if it’s his need or Dean’s. If it’s even real at all. He never thinks to question it, just like he never thinks to question the nights Dean winds up in his room, carrying a pillow and muttering for Sam to shove over.

They’ve never been great at sleeping alone, and there’s no reason they’d start now.

Sam knocks on the open door, loud enough to make the sound carry. Dean twitches in his bed.

“Dean,” Sam says, making sure Dean’s awake before he comes any closer.

Dean’s eyes open in the dim light from the hallway, and he’s already sitting up, already reaching for the blanket and throwing it off him. If Sam lets him get any further, he’ll be reaching for his shoes in a second.

“Sam?” he asks, sleep coloring his voice, making it drag easy and rough.

Sam shakes his head. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Go back to bed.”

Dean stays sitting for a while longer, blinking in the light like he’s trying to make sense of Sam. He huffs back into bed without another word, probably passed the fuck out again already. It’s late—or early, depending on how you squint your eyes. Sam closes the door behind him, and Dean doesn’t mention it. He moves over when Sam pulls back the covers and climbs into bed, into the haven between the blankets that’s furnace-warm and smells like Dean.

These beds are impossibly small, and it’s a tight fit for two men. Dean turns toward Sam, curling around him. Sam shifts around, trying to get comfortable. He puts a leg here then there before finally kicking it between Dean’s legs.

Dean slaps him lightly on the hip. “Stay still,” he mutters sleepily.

Sam digs his arm beneath his half of the lone pillow before he finally does. He wraps his other arm around Dean, pulling him close. Dean’s breath tickles in the hollow of his collarbone, humid and sticky, but Sam doesn’t push him away.

“Don’t hog the blankets, bitch,” Dean mutters into his skin.

“Jerk,” Sam says, sleepy and affectionate.

He closes his eyes, and sleep is waiting for him right where he left it, warm and safe—a haven just for now.


	6. we're come to make a sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ritual sacrifice

“This is our last night,” Edie says. “It feels… strange.” She stares down at her fingers, flexing them and watching them move. Jacob watches her watching. “It doesn’t feel real, does it?”

Jacob shakes his head. He bumps his shoulder against hers. “So let’s make the most of it.”

She looks at him, lip tucked between her teeth like she wants to say something. The line between her eyebrows is back, so familiar that he knows it like the back of his hand. He wants to press his thumb into its divot to smooth it out.

He thinks she’ll say something, but she doesn’t. She stops biting her mouth just to grab the bottle of Jack around its neck, bringing its lip to hers so she can tip some of the whiskey inside. He watches the way her pale throat flexes when she swallows and tries to imagine sticking a knife into it. He finds that he can’t.

He reaches out one-armed and makes grabby hands before she’s finished her drink, needing something to do with himself.

“Chill out,” she says, but she hands it over, wiping her mouth on the back of her arm.

He wants to have a snappy comeback here, but he doesn’t.

He drinks until he chokes and gasps, the sugared burn of the whiskey threatening to come back up again. Edie’s eyes are flat black in the light of the fire. She looks like something fey and strange, and Jacob wishes all at once that she hadn’t put on the white dress. _If we’re going to do the thing, we should do it right,_ she said. He doesn’t care. Blood is blood. He just wants to see her in her favorite ratty jeans and stupid t-shirts one last time.

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” Edie says.

Jacob laughs and passes the bottle back. “If you wanted another turn, you could’ve just said so.”

The whiskey is still mostly full by the time their fire burns down to embers. Neither of them make a move to feed it. The moon is almost at its highest point in the sky, winking down at them through the treetops. They’d chosen this clearing for its view of the moon.

Jacob takes a deep breath when Edie pulls the knife out of her backpack. It’s an ordinary knife, a little battered at the edges. It lost its point years ago from one too many headers off the kitchen counter. He’d bought it for Edie when she got her first apartment. He was only nineteen then.

He plucks the knife from her hands, ignoring Edie’s grumble. He tests the edge on the side of his thumb, making sure it’s sharp enough to cut the first time.

“I sharpened it,” Edie snaps, taking it back with a glare. “I’m not a dumbass.”

“I’m just checking, calm your tits. Do you have the rest of the stuff?”

She passes over the ratty Jansport, still eyeing the knife in her hand with a kind of focus that makes Jacob feel uneasy. He pulls out the wooden bowl and the ziplock bag full of herbs. When he gets to his feet, the world sways.

“Told you,” Edie says, and Jacob flips her off.

He clears away a circle big enough for the both of them, shuffling dead leaves aside with his feet. After a little while, Edie joins him. They make a quick job of it, working side by side, the only sound their rough breathing and the occasional pop from the dying campfire. It’s hard to see what they’re doing in the low light. Jacob stubs his foot on a hidden root and swears.

He sets the bowl in the middle of the circle and empties the baggie into it. Edie cuts her hand and starts painting runes around them, her knee jammed onto the book to hold it open. Her phone’s flashlight blinds him, and when he looks away, he sees stars.

“Okay,” she says when she’s finished.

“Okay.”

She tosses the book back in her backpack, careful not to get blood on its corners. She zips it up and tucks it against the base of a tree. “Do you think anyone will return the book?”

Jacob makes a face. “Don’t be stupid. They’re going to be too upset about the dead bodies to even notice.”

“I hope someone returns it. I feel bad stealing a library book.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he allows, not because he thinks it’s true, but because he doesn’t want to upset her and it doesn’t matter anyway. “Okay,” he says again, dumbly. What are you supposed to say when you’re about to die? “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

She hands him the knife. He looks at it, its scratched surface catching the white light of the moon.

“Do you want me to?” he gestures to her. He gestures to the knife. He makes a few stabbing motions and the sound effects from The Shining. It’s not what they planned, but he feels like he should offer.

She shakes her head. “I have to do the chant.”

“I could—”

“The _library book.”_

He nods.

He takes a deep breath. He could tell her he loves her. He could tell her, but she already knows. He takes one more breath and then another, then he gets down on his knees and sticks his neck over the bowl.

When he draws the blade across his throat, he does it as hard as he can. He panics as he feels flesh part. He makes sure the blood gets into the bowl, every drop he can muster. When he doesn’t think he can stay upright anymore, he feels his sister’s hands on his shoulders, easing him gently to his side. She pets her hand over his face once before loosening the knife from his sticky grip.

The last thing he hears is chanting. The last thing he sees is her face, steadily blurring into the moon.

*

“What can you tell us about our vics?”

“I knew ‘em since they were babies. Never would’ve pegged them for the type to get mixed up in Satanic crap, to tell you the truth. They were good kids.”

Sam nods. “So they lived in town?”

“Oh, no. Jacob moved away years ago. Never really got along with his old man—mean sonuvabitch, can hardly blame him. Edie split not long after. They were always thick as thieves, those two. Must’ve been here visiting their mother.”

“And their mom—did they get along with her?”

“Oh, sure. They’d come around every so often ever since their dad died. More, since their mom took sick.” The cop shakes his head. “What a damn shame.”

Sam nods. “Well, thank you for your time.”

He smiles until the man walks away.

“So, we thinking witchcraft?” Dean asks as they head back to the car.

“Probably. Looks like some kind of black magic. We should go interview their mom, find out what she knows.”

Dean shakes his head. “The shit people get into, man.”


	7. red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: internal bleeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone said "write the stories you want to read," and now here we are. Pre-series.

The bare bulb shone ragged above them, throwing everything into sharp relief. The lines on Dad’s face were etched in stone. He looked older than Sam was used to. It scared the hell out of him, but Sam couldn’t stop staring. Dad’s chin was a smear of red, chalky blood bright against his pale face.

Dad was going to die. Dad was going to fucking die.

“Sam,” Dean barked. _“Sam!”_

He reached out and grabbed Sam’s shoulder, shaking him like a rag doll. Dad groaned and pressed a hand into his side, and Dean dug a handful of coins out of his pocket and dumped them in Sam’s hands. Sam cupped his fingers too late, pennies and nickels spilling like water and rattling across the floor. He curled his hands around whatever was left as Dean shoved him roughly toward the door.

“Call for help.”

Sam nodded, jerky. It took another second to pry his eyes off Dad, and then his sneakers were stuttering against the grubby tile, his hand already scrabbling at the shitty lock.

“No.”

Sam whipped around, startled.

Their dad spoke again, shoving himself upright with some effort and grimacing all the while. He shook his head. “No. No ambulances.”

“But Dad—” Dean started, looking even paler than Dad, if that was possible.

“I said no.” His voice was firm, but the last word was lost on another rattling cough. More blood streaked down his chin, spattering his shirt.

Sam hesitated, hand on the doorknob. Everything was moving in slow motion, disjointed and jerky like watching a claymation special.

“Sammy, get the med kit,” Dad coughed.

Sam stayed frozen. He looked to Dean, eyes wide. Dean looked just as stunned, just as shell-shocked. He looked sick under the harsh light. He nodded to Sam, small and just barely there. Sam dropped the change in his hands, yanked the keys off the floor, and ran. The coins fell like silver rain, and he wasn’t there to see it.

The cold night air was a slap in the face. He sucked the clean air into his lungs like it was the last he’d ever get and ran, feet slapping the dry dust, all the way to their car in the lonely parking lot. The bulb was burnt out here, the only light trickling in from the truck stop diner fifty yards away. Sam’s hands shook as he tried and failed to connect key with lock. He scraped it over the paint and swore under his breath.

“Come on, come _on._ Fuck, fuck, fuck, come on.”

He got it, finally. He yanked open the glove compartment, feeling around in the near-dark for the smooth plastic of their first aid kit. He picked it up. Dropped it. Swore and picked it up again, careful to slam the glove compartment and lock the door even in his hurry because Dad would have his ass if he didn’t (if he doesn’t die, a mean little voice in his head said).

He hauled ass back to the bathroom.

He should call 911. He _should,_ but Dad said no, and he lost all the coins, and Dean is scared, and Dad is bleeding out on a shitty bathroom floor in the middle of nowhere, and he might fucking die. His hands shake so bad they rattle the insides of the first aid kit.

Sam takes one last big, deep breath before going back inside.


End file.
